“Certainly,” said Mary, and led the way to the door. Felicity slipped out first, and wandered with her delicate step a little down the path. “Isn't it darling!” exclaimed Constance from the porch, surveying the flower-strewn grass, the feathery trees, and the pale gleam of the water. Mary began to show her some recent plantings, in particular a rose-bed which was her last addition to the garden. “I see you have a barn,” said Felicity, flitting back to them with a hint of animation. “Is it picturesque inside? Would it lend itself to treatment?” She wandered toward it, and there was nothing for the others to do but follow. “Oh, yes,” explained Mary, “my husband has converted it into a studio. He may be working there now--I had been meaning to call him.” She felt a trifle uncomfortable, almost as if she had put herself in the wrong. “Coo-oo, Stefan,” she called as they neared the barn, Felicity still flitting ahead. The door swung open, and there stood Stefan, pallette in hand, screwing up his eyes in the sun. As they lit on his approaching visitor an expression first of astonishment, and then of something very like displeasure, crossed his face. At sight of it, Mary's spirits subconsciously responded by a distinct upward lift. Stefan waved his brush without shaking hands, and then, seeing Constance, broke into a smile. “How delightful, Mrs. Elliot! How did you come? By auto? And you drove Miss Berber? We are honored. You are our first visitors except the Farradays. Come and see my studio.” They trooped into the quaint little barn, which appeared to wear its big north light rather primly, as a girl her first low-necked gown. It was unfurnished, save for a table and easel, several canvases, and an old arm-chair. Felicity glanced at the sketches. “In pastoral mood again,” she commented, with what might have been the faintest note of sarcasm. Stefan's eyebrows twitched nervously. “There's nothing to see in here-these are the merest sketches,” he said abruptly. “Come along, Mrs. Elliot, I've been working since before breakfast; let's say good-morning to the flowers.” And with his arm linked through hers he piloted Constance back toward the lawn. “Mr. Byrd ought never to wear tweed, do you think? It makes him look heavy,” remarked Felicity. Again Mary had to suppress a feeling of irritation. “I rather like it,” she said. “It's so comfy and English.” “Yes?” breathed Felicity vaguely, walking on. Suddenly she appeared to have a return of animation. She floated forward quickly for a few steps, turned with a swaying movement, and waited for Mary with hands and feet poised. “The grass under one's feet, Mrs. Byrd, it makes them glad. One could almost dance!” Again she fluttered ahead, this time overtaking Constance and Stefan, who had halted in the middle of the lawn. She swayed before them on tiptoe. “Connie,” she was saying as Mary came up, “why does one not more often dance in the open?”